


for worse or for better

by defractum (nyargles)



Series: Tumblr Fic & Prompt Fills [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Wedding Planning, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 11:24:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3567887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don’t care," says Enjolras, and regrets it the moment the words fall out of his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for worse or for better

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** I'd love to see a exR wedding ? Because I've never read one, only proposals but never THE THING.

"I don’t care," says Enjolras, and regrets it the moment the words fall out of his mouth.

Grantaire, hand outstretched with a book of colour schemes for the reception, only hesitates for a moment. “Alright. I’ll pick something we’ll both like then,” he says, and his voice doesn’t even quaver. Fuck. Enjolras has really fucked up if Grantaire’s had so much practice that Enjolras can’t tell if he’s lying or not anymore.

"Grantaire," says Enjolras, hoping, willing Grantaire to understand him. "It’s not – I __do__ care, I just –” He scrubs at his face with one hand.

He’s tired. He’s just so ridiculously tired, and he didn’t even care much to start with but between the upcoming election and the waning interest in their protests and his actual day job that he’s probably going to be fired from at any moment for being politically active, he’s just run out of fucks to give.

Planning a wedding is a ridiculous amount of work; there are logistics Enjolras doesn’t know the answer to and more details that need approval than he knew existed. His shoulders slump. “No, I’m sorry. I really don’t. I really, really don’t give a damn what colour the chairs are.”

Grantaire smiles, and ruffles Enjolras’s hair with one hand as he walks back to drop the book on their overflowing dining room table. “I said it’s alright.”

And God, that’s worse, isn’t it?

Enjolras pulls himself together and stands, pushing himself up and across the room until he fits himself against Grantaire’s back. He wraps his arms around Grantaire’s waist, and nuzzles his face against Grantaire’s shoulderblades. “I care about __you__ ,” he says. “I – I care about us. I care about you and getting married to you, and being together and whether you’re happy or not.”

Grantaire relaxes, just the tiniest bit, and runs his thumb across the back of Enjolras’s hand as he shuffles the papers on the dining table and attempts to stack their wedding plans into some semblance of order. Enjolras doesn’t let go, even as relief floods through his gut, violent and leaky and trickling uncomfortably through his body like a burst pipe.

"I care about being able to have tax benefits and inheritance laws that recognise you as a full partner," he adds lightly.

Grantaire huffs. “Charming,” he says dryly, but he also means it, so that’s okay.

"But," finishes Enjolras, "I don’t give a damn what colour the chairs are. They could be puce and khaki, or we could have no chairs and make all of our friends sit on the floor for all I care, as long as we’re married."

Grantaire pries Enjolras’s hands off from around his waist and Enjolras lets him reluctantly. Grantaire turns, and drapes Enjolras’s hands around his neck instead, pulling him in for a hug, hard and strong and desperate. “You probably should have started with that,” he says, pressing his forehead to Enjolras’s and closing his eyes.

"I want to  _be_  married to you,” says Enjolras, fingers playing with the curls at the base of Grantaire’s neck. “Everything else is just…” he waves his hands, not that Grantaire can see the action given his eyes are closed and Enjolras’s hands are still propped on Grantaire’s shoulders, but it’s Grantaire, so he probably gets that Enjolras is making some sort of silly gesture instead. “Stuff,” he finishes.

"Stuff," echoes Grantaire, smiling lop-sidedly. "Really expensive stuff," he adds.

Grantaire’s just as tired as he is, Enjolras realises, especially because he’s been shouldering the brunt of the wedding planning so that Enjolras doesn’t have to. “Sorry,” Enjolras says again, his breath ghosting across Grantaire’s cheek.

–

"They’re going to kill us," says Enjolras. "Kill us dead."

"We’re throwing them a reception where the chairs will match the curtains and there will be cake and alcohol," says Grantaire. "They’re not going to kill us."

They’re at the registry office, having phoned ahead and asked for the first free slot they had. Luckily, the first week of December is hardly a popular time to have a wedding, let alone in the middle of the work week, so they’re there now.

There had been a very brief discussion about witnesses – it could have been one for Enjolras and one for Grantaire, except then Grantaire couldn’t choose between Joly and Bossuet and Enjolras couldn’t choose between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and then they just knew that everyone else would lynch them for not bringing them along too, and so they have two bemused strangers borrowed from the wedding party in before their slot witnessing instead.

There’s very little pomp to it. Enjolras is wearing a shirt and slacks but only because that’s what he always wears; Grantaire’s in a leather jacket and dark jeans. Grantaire’s hand is sweating in Enjolras’s, and he’s reasonably sure that his is sweating back, but he refuses to let go until the officator asks for the rings.

Enjolras’s gets stuck for a bit just before the second knuckle and Grantaire twists it and glares. “I only got you sized two weeks ago, you stupid fuck,” he mutters at it, and Enjolras grins. His finger hurts from Grantaire trying to push it on, but he doesn’t really care because it goes on eventually.

They don’t do personal vows – when the officiator asks, Grantaire just shakes his head. “Whatever,” he says. “I love him, he loves me, we’re both crap at keeping promises so let’s just not make any.”

The officiator laughs at them in surprise, breaking role, and then shakes her head. “In that case –” and then she’s declaring them husband and husband and Enjolras doesn’t wait, just fists his hands into the front of Grantaire’s t-shirt and leans in for a kiss.

Grantaire snorts more than he kisses him, but again. Enjolras doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about a lot of things today apparently, but that’s okay because he’s __fucking married__.

Grantaire grins down at him, and Enjolras can feel the affection and love and exasperation from the last few weeks welling up inside him. He’s not romantic by any means, but he thinks he could try to be, for Grantaire. He’d actually already written his vows, basically the only part of the wedding he’d prepared for because it was about what mattered, and he __does__ want Grantaire to hear them, so –

"Man, __tax benefits__ ,” says Grantaire, and gives him a second, proper kiss as Enjolras splutters in laughter. And, well. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://defractum.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
